The Fallen
by xCookie93
Summary: Holmes becomes deathly ill, and Watson fears the worst. One-shot. Mild slash. Character death. Rated M to be sure.


I had never thought about how I could lose something or someone very important. I lived my own little life in some sort of box, never knowing what was coming in and what was coming out.

I had known that the fact living with Holmes under same roof, you really could not know. Sometimes he could have dragged me out and be just so damn eager to solve something.

At other times he would seem like the most emotional, shut-in person I have ever known. It had happened that he did not even want to speak a word to me for days, and I had been worried. But when I finally had seen him again, I knew that it was just him being Holmes and nothing else. It was never something serious. I had lived under that thought for a long time.

He was such a lovely friend to me. I never wanted him to leave, and I knew he felt the same about me. When I was not around he could think of something so foolish that I could not believe it. He would have himself got beaten up by someone much bigger than himself, so I could take care of him afterwards, scolding him about how stupid he could be at times.

But deep inside, I really liked him. I mean, we all have our bad moments.

It is strange how things you do not want to happen _do _happen after all. I have made a promise to myself about not to think such things anymore. Because when it happens, you break down like you have never done before. Holmes taught me that.

* * *

We were in Baker Street, our study room. For a few days Holmes had been wrecking his brain to find this missing 8-year old girl. I knew how he felt about children.

You could think he cared just as much for adults, but Holmes could manage to get so concerned about children. It sounds odd, because who would not care? But this was Holmes. The man, everybody usually saw as heartless. I did not have the same opinion.

I watched him pacing around the room, rubbing his forehead, thrusting his hands in and out of his pockets once in a while. I myself was sitting in one of the armchairs, fiddling with the handle of my cane.

Suddenly he walked straight to the desk. He shot his fingers through every single paper. Some of them flew from somewhere that was out of my sight.

I could tell he was frustrated as hell. His movements were quick and he did not speak. All though he suddenly mumbled something under his breath as he stopped all movements, and I thought for a second that he had come up with something.

I watched him bending over the desk with his hands resting on the top in exhaustion. I did not blame him. All though I became a little worried, when he did not move.

"Holmes?" I asked, all sure that the concerned tone in my voice was clear to him.

He did not answer me right away and that got me to put my cane away and get up from the chair a bit carefully. I walked to him and placed a hand on his shoulder, my fingers barely touching him before he shot his head up, looking at me a bit startled as I withdrew my hand.

I felt my concern rise when I saw his eyes. They were glassy and slightly red-rimmed.

"What is it, Holmes?" I asked softly when he shot his gaze down again.

He turned away from me with no words and continued his pacing.

* * *

Next day I caught Holmes in a violent coughing fit. Of cause he insisted that nothing was the matter, and I could continue worrying. I could not bear watching him drive himself closer and closer to the edge by twisting his brain in that way. Luckily I had not seen him with the syringe for a few weeks. Not once.

I met him outside our rooms in the hallway the same evening, and to my surprise I saw him lean heavily against the door frame to his room with his back towards me, his hands clinging to the frame.

At once I noticed his gasping and met him at his side. At first I just took him in, looking for signs. I got an odd feeling in my stomach when I saw his face. He was pail like a corpse, his eyes were closed and sweat seemed to cover his forehead.

I jumped slightly when he suddenly spoke, still with closed eyes, panting with a heavy breath.

"Would you... mind help me... to bed, Watson?"

I did not say anything. I just grabbed around his waist with my arm, and he took my shoulder.

* * *

He had fallen asleep at once that evening, and it really did not help my concern. It was so un-like him, being in such a state like that. I had always told myself he would never get ill, and I am sure he had told himself that, too.

* * *

Next morning I did not notice him waking up. Usually I would hear him play the violin or just move around, which could be very noisy at times.

I went out of my room and stood hesitatingly outside his door before walking down the stairs to find Mrs. Hudson.

I was met in the kitchen with a relieved sigh from the woman.

"Oh, it is definitely good to see you up, doctor," she stated and came to me at once, lightly pushing me through the door as she guided me. "I have not seen Mr. Holmes yet, and I am a little worried. Perhaps you should go in there, doctor."

I gave her a confused look but made my way up to Holmes' room and knocked softly at the door. Carefully I called out his name, and when no answer was heard from the other side of the door, I grabbed the handle and entered.

Everything seemed to be untouched from last night when I had left. I went farther into the room and called out his name once again.

I reached the part of the room, where his bed was, and was a little startled to see him still being in bed. He lay on his side, his face away from me and the sheet pulled up over his shoulder. I could sense that something was wrong and my _doctor mode _suddenly kicked in as I walked to the bed and took a closer look at him.

My eyes both got wide and frowned when I saw him.

His entire body trembled roughly. His hair was plastered to his forehead, his eyes were closed and his teeth seemed to chatter.

The sight of this quickly got me around the bed and to his side, where I knelt beside the bed, ignoring my leg.

"Holmes?" I brushed his shoulder like he was some piece of china and then moved my palm to his forehead. He was burning like hell!

"Holmes, can you hear me?"

He mumbled something under his breath. I could not make out the words, but I was sure that he was definitely dreaming. And taken from his facial expressions it was not a good one.

I gently gave his shoulder a little shake, and that was when his eyes suddenly flew open, as he gave a twitch and sat up quicker than I thought was even possible. I slightly stumbled backwards in shock and found some support against the wall behind me.

Holmes stared into nothing and just sat there, gasping with wide eyes.

I rose with support of the wall and went first to his side, but when I could not get any contact with him, I moved in front of him and rested a hand on his shoulder.

His eyes met mine and it was a horrified look. There was complete terror in his eyes, I could tell.

Suddenly I heard him beginning to retch from deep in his throat and without any warning he bent over the side of the bed and vomited heavily with the small content he got in him. I actually stepped back a little, all though the vomit would not have hit me otherwise.

I just stood there, watching him emptying his stomach over the floor before falling on his back in the bed, closing his eyes and panted.

Before I could react in any way I ran for the door, called Mrs. Hudson to bring some water and went back to my friend.

"Oh my god... Holmes," I said softly as I sat down on the edge of the bed. "Just try to stay calm. Everything's going to be alright." I tried to say it in a soothing voice, but the fact was that I did not know anything.

I did not even know whether he could hear me.

Mrs. Hudson came into the room with the water, and I am sure she was taken aback, when the smell hit her. I thanked her, took the water bowl and I sensed her being in the room for a little while, as I started to clean Holmes' face, running the cloth over every possible areas, also his neck and I felt him shiver at the touch.

When his face was clean, I wanted him to drink.

"Holmes? Please wake up," I pleaded and stroke his cheek.

His eyelids slowly cracked open, and his eyes found mine. I managed a little smile to soothe him.

"I need you to drink something," I stated and held out a class of water.

His eyes snapped shot once again.

"Can you-" his voice managed to rasp out as he coughed a little.

I completely understood what he meant. I guided him into a half-sitting position and held the glass to his mouth, making him sip the water before taking in a good couple of swallows.

"That's it..." My voice was low but clear. I put the glass down onto the bed table, fixed a clean cloth and gently placed it on his forehead.

He kept his eyes shot as I just watched him for a while, and I was finally a little relieved when his breathing became quite normal.

* * *

As pathetic as I am, I found myself sitting in Holmes' room almost the entire day, someplace where I could manage to keep an eye on him but still not being too close.

I tried so hard to find out something as I fumbled through every single page in medical books, as Holmes just lay in bed, looking like a damn corpse and not speaking a word.

* * *

He did not actually change his state until late night. I had fallen asleep over all the work I had done but was suddenly awaken by a loud coughing coming from the bed.

I was on my way immediately as I saw Holmes was sitting up, his legs swung over the edge of the bed. His head was bent over and one of his arms was hugging his mid-section, the other hand gripping the sheeting tightly so the knuckles went white.

When I reached him I actually froze a little before letting my hand turn his face up, so I could look him in the eyes.

I have seen many horrifying things in my life. And maybe it was because this was – in fact – Holmes. My heart sank at the sight.

There were no eyes to see. Just Holmes' darkened eyelids, fighting back a lot of pain, I was sure about that.

But that was not the worst thing.

Holmes' lips were covered in blood, which made its way down his chin. He gritted his teeth, probably to fight back another fit of coughing.

I did not have a chance to immediately reacting, as he snapped his head away from my hand and started to gasp for breath before starting a new coughing fit, sending his body into trembling roughly. Blood splattered all over the sheets, the floor and the wall as small drops and I could do nothing but guide his head to the bowl, where he made his final spit, while I rubbed his back in small, slow circles.

I got him up once again and started to wipe off the blood as he just sat there, remaining passive with closed eyes and not a single sound.

I did not know what to say. I was still so shocked that I could not get my throat to co-operate with my brain. I wanted so badly to say something. I wanted to assure him everything was going to be fine. But I could not bring myself to the words. I did not want to lie to him. Something was seriously wrong.

At that point I felt tears form in my eyes. What if he did not make it?

* * *

That night I had started him on medication. This was not just some simple flu, I knew that. Internal bleedings was definitely a sign of something very serious.

* * *

My mind did not get better with the fact that inspector Lestrade visited Baker Street next morning and started grumbling about how much he needed Holmes at the moment, and I was not at all in mood for discussing such things with him. After all I had not got much sleep that night.

I gave Lestrade some sort of report and gave my opinion on the case – I had after all worked with Holmes for a long time – gave him my regards as he left the house again.

I entered Holmes' room again and was a little startled, when I heard him speak.

"Lestrade's voice is definitely too recognizable."

I slowly walked to the bed and slightly frowned at his half-open eyes.

"Yes," I said hesitatingly and smiled. "Good to see you awake."

He licked his bottom lip before a soft cough escaped him. He looked so incredibly weak. His eyes barely stayed open more than a few seconds a time.

I went to his bedside and grabbed the glass of water from the bed table.

"Drink something," I stated with a soft voice and wanted to hand him the glass, but when I saw that weak, trembling hand of his, I realised his state. Therefore I held it to his mouth as I had done before.

"How bad is it, doctor?" he rasped out after a couple of sips, not looking at me.

I looked down for a moment before answering.

"It's bad," I said and hesitated a moment. "It's really bad, Holmes."

He did not react. In fact it seemed like he had not even heard me.

I was about to say his name, but he came to me first.

"It hurts," he pleaded.

"What hurts?" I asked him.

His gasping continued.

"Breathing... hurts..."

It really sounded like his throat was closing as he gripped the sheets tightly, and some ugly signs of pain were clear around his eyes.

"Holmes, just... Try to take some deep breaths," I said a little desperately.

And he took a deep breath as I told him to, but it just resulted in another violent coughing fit. He bent forward, coughing into his trembling hands, and all I could do was to soothe his back.

And the blood was there once again. Holmes' hands were spattered with it, and as foolish as I am, I quickly wiped it away, like to hide it from him.

But of cause he knew. He was way too familiar with the taste of blood.

When he was finally lying on his back again and I had wiped the blood off his lips, I just sat there and watched him for a moment.

* * *

I had lectured Holmes later the same day about staying in bed. I had to go check on a patient while Mrs. Hudson ran some errands.

It did not at all help my concern to leave him alone, and it was against all my principles. But when someone calls for my help, I cannot do anything but do so.

When I returned to Baker Street after an unfocused job – because of my concerned mind – I noticed that the landlady had not returned, and I went straight to Holmes' room, entering quickly.

I thought my heart skipped a beat when I saw him lying on his side on the floor a few feet from the bed.

"Holmes!" I cried out and ran to him.

He was bathed in sweat, his face tightening in pain, and he trembled so much that I almost thought for a moment he had a seizure.

I took his hand. It was cold as ice even though he had a high fever.

"Holmes," I pleaded. "I told you to stay in bed, you fool."

It seemed he was going to say something but all that came out was a trembling moan, and I suddenly felt tears in my eyes. I should not have left him.

"S-so cold," he managed to cough out.

I desperately looked around before I made my choice of action.

I gently but quickly slid my hands under him, one under his knees and the other around his back and under his arms. I made a stand with him in my arms, all though my leg had started to ache.

His head rested against my shoulder. His trembling did that he almost slipped off me as I moved to the settee to lay him down. He slightly whimpered, and I was completely startled. I had never seen him like this.

He had not been eating for a few days, and that was indeed clear to me. His weight did not bother me at all.

I lay him down onto his back when I reached the settee in front of the fireplace and pulled out a blanket.

"Let's get you warm," I mumbled, perhaps mostly to myself and went to the fireplace, the fire from two hours ago of cause blown out.

When the new fire began to hiss in the fireplace, I went back to Holmes, tucked the blanket closer around him and felt his forehead.

He was just so burning...

I sat down on the edge of the settee and watched him as he kept trembling and chatter his teeth.

Almost in the same moment I heard the front door open and I made my way out of the room to tell Mrs. Hudson to immediately prepare some tea for Holmes.

She was worried but I could not say something to assure her. I did not know what to think anymore. I had never been so scared. Not even in war.

"Holmes, you have to eat," I told him the same evening.

He did not answer. He just lay there with his eyes closed, his limbs weak. If his chest had not been moving I could have been sure that he was dead.

Also he continued to gasp for breath, the gasping only getting worse for every minute. So it seemed.

"Please," I pleaded weakly.

"I ca-" A coughing fit hit him once again, and I ran a hand over my face. God, it was so frustrating. I felt tears in my eyes again but refused to let him see them.

"At least drink something," I said with a trembling voice. "It's also time for your medication."

I got off the settee to get the medication but froze at his words behind the coughing.

"Do not... waste it, doctor."

I stood there with my back towards him, my eyes getting wide in surprise and confusion. Then I turned slowly, blinking against the tears.

Finally his brown eyes were there.

I stayed my ground and just looked at him questioningly.

"Wh- What do you mean?" I asked him, my voice almost cracking. I knew the answer already.

He closed his eyes again, his mouth quite open, and I went to his side, sitting down on the edge.

"I d-don't want to die," he choked out and sniffled a single time.

"You are not going to die, old boy." I tried to sound self-confident but the uncertainty in my voice was way too clear.

He got quiet.

"Do you... Do you want me to sit here for a moment?" I asked him softly, almost like a whisper.

He nodded and breathed in deeply which again caught him in coughing. I felt so badly for him. It ached so hard to see him like this.

"I'm not giving up on you," I said and lay my hand on his. I had no idea why I did it.

He did not react in any way. He was just so silent, looked like he was asleep.

A tear passed my cheek before I had any chance to stop it, and I quickly brushed it away. It would only be a matter of time...

The feeling of up-coming loss was unbearable.

* * *

Later that night I was doing some paper work. I had given Holmes his medication whether he liked it or not. He was after all too weak to protest.

Suddenly a moan came from him. I quickly shot him a look before continuing my work.

But I almost fell off the chair when he woke up.

"NO!" he screamed as he quickly sat up, and I stared at him.

"Holmes?" I went to him. "Did you... have a bad dream?"

He just sat there, panting and bathed in sweat. He closed his eyes and I think I saw him shudder. It had to be a terrible dream he just went through.

I sat down, when he started to cough again, and I soothed his back as always and shoved him back into the pillows, when the fit fated. I felt his forehead only to find it unbelievably hot and clammy. His face twisted a little at the touch.

"Please, Holmes, you have to drink some water," I pleaded and held out the glass to put it to his mouth but he stopped my action with a hand which brushed my wrist.

I felt my heart sink. Did he refuse my comfort to him? I swallowed hardly.

Slowly I put the glass back onto the table and sighed softly.

"Watson," he breathed out, and I immediately draw my attention to him.

"Yes? What is it, Holmes?" I asked concerned.

He slightly coughed before he spoke.

"Do not... lie to me."

"What do you mean?" I asked and looked down.

"I know... that I'm dying..." He took a shaky breath and coughed again.

I looked at him with tearful eyes and to my surprise his eyes were open. There was no expression in his face. He just watched me, blinking slowly.

"Don't-" I trailed off and looked away, briefly letting my face get buried in my hand. "Don't say that. Please, I don't want to hear it."

His eyes closed when he managed to rasp out: "I'm just... so tired..."

I panicked. "No, Holmes, you don't dare leaving me now!" I slightly shook him by his upper arms, feeling his skinny limbs beneath my touch. "Holmes?" I stared into his face with wide eyes.

With his eyes still closed he mumbled something I caught as _I'm sorry._

And then he suddenly went limp. His head tilted to the side as a final shaky breath escaped his lips before letting go.

At first I just sat there and stared at him like this was beyond me.

Then I quickly placed two fingers on his neck to check for a pulse.

I did not find any. Not one single beat of life.

My face completely turned from chock to grief as I burst out in tears and pulled him to my chest.

I sat like that for which seemed to be a long time as tears were streaming down my face, my fingers digging into my friend's skin, like I could transfer some life to the lifeless body. Why did he have to die like that? It was not fair. So completely unfair!

My situation only got worse when Mrs. Hudson entered the room and saw the dead man.

* * *

Not many people showed up at the funeral. Apart from Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Holmes' brother Mycroft and a few policemen, I did not know anyone.

I felt paralysed as I stood there, staring at the coffin of my dear friend, listening to sniffles coming from the gathered people.

I did not know what the worst thing was; the fact that he died or the fact that he left me here. I would rather die than be alive without him. He was the one with the smallest problem.

* * *

Every corner I went around, every street of London, everything I did reminded me of him.

The words rang in my head.

_I don't want to die._

I let him die. I am a doctor, and I just let my best friend die!

I know what Holmes would have told me: _Do not blame yourself._ He always told me that.

And if I had to move on, I was sure I had to live under that fact.


End file.
